


Playing House

by gaysquared



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: An excuse for me to vent while also doting on John bc he’s baby, Character Study, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, tenderness taken to dangerous levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 11:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20242447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysquared/pseuds/gaysquared
Summary: John falls asleep on Laszlo's study settee.Laszlo has some thoughts (many of them quite fond).





	Playing House

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a mess of book/show canon bc I wanted Laszlo’s Hungarian mom but also John’s artist hands; as well as not having to talk about a certain character dying in between The Alienist and Angel Of Darkness. Bc I didn’t feel like it. 
> 
> I’ve been in kind of a mood lately (Bro I’m like, straight up not having a good time) but I recently became obsessed with them and well. Here we are. 
> 
> I deeply apologize for all the commas and run on sentences in advance. This was thrown together rather quickly as I waded in my own melancholy feels.
> 
> Takes place probably right in between the Alienist and AoD, maybe in the fall.

John, as was his custom of late, had fallen fast asleep on the settee in Laszlo’s study. The alienist noticed this only after a moment, looking up from his book and giving a sigh he might, under some hassling, admit was affectionate. 

John had grown less and less tolerant of being alone in the last few months; nothing Laszlo could blame him for, and he certainly preferred John seek his company over that of a brothel. They were both weary, in mind and perhaps soul, if there surely was such a thing; and for good reason; although neither of them seemed to be very good at admitting to this. It was undeniable to Laszlo, now, that he did view this sharing of his mental state as a vulnerability; a weakness. The thought, he knew, must be hypocritical and also quite irrational— But if he’d learned anything, then such was the mind; and even he could not change that.

And so, both in their concealed recent history of insomnia, nightmares, anxious fluttering of heartbeats during the day at the most innocuous things; well. They often spent the evenings together like this. At first Laszlo hadn’t thought much of the extra company, but upon realizing John was willing to undergo the opera more than once a week if it offered companionship, Laszlo had felt a startling surge of worry. It was funny now, of course. But then again, Laszlo always worried, especially when it came to John; and no matter how with a most vice-like, terrified hold he tried to conceal it. 

The illustrator had stuck to wine that night, even though he often complained about the sour taste it left in his mouth by the next morning. It was something that made Laszlo a rather humming-warmth sort of pleased; although perhaps that was the wine he’d drank himself. Besides his friend passing over hard liquor, he’d had an excuse to dip into his cellar; a cellar so full by now that Laszlo worried he wouldn’t be able to drink it all before he died. 

A funny thought entered his head; a grown, bearded Stevie Taggert, eyes alight with wonder at inheriting a frankly silly amount of vintage wine.

John made a quiet groan in his sleep; not a nightmare, Laszlo hoped. The doctor set down his spectacles, leaning back in his armchair so as to observe his friend in the quiet night. He’d sent Cyrus away half an hour ago, and Stevie a while before that. The only noise then was the crackle of the fireplace and low, ever-present click-click turning of carriages on the street. 

A sour expression contorted John’s sleeping face, and Laszlo wondered again about his dreaming. 

John, in all his openness, had finally admitted recently that perhaps, simply perhaps, he had not been sleeping as well as he’d like; and on this discussion they’d come to the topic of the Beecham case, not unsurprisingly. But this, in turn, had led to a conversation on Japheth Dury’s history; the horrible upbringing that had shaped him. 

John Moore, who had seen awful events before this case and truly grotesque, terrible ones during it, still had that kind tenderness to him; had not let it wither or blacken one bit, even in seeing the worst humanity had to offer. It filled Laszlo with a lovely shock, and fondness, and then a bit of berating himself, because of course John Moore, of all people, would resist decline into cynical misanthropy, no matter how the world pushed him otherwise. 

All this was to say, that John had quietly told him about how he’d heard much of explosive fathers with terrible rages, but that his own had always had anger like ice; bitter and cold as January. As isolating, too, or so it sounded. Laszlo, feeling John’s pain in the pit of his stomach, had softly admitted that his own father had quite the temper. Albeit, however, still a bit evasively; as it did feel, he mused, as if he were prying apart his ribs with sheer force, willing them to crack open and reveal his inner pieces, all too literally. 

But still. He’d allowed himself to say how perhaps Mr. Kreizler had been more of his own, stupefying mix of fire and frost, too difficult for a child to ever understand. John had simply nodded, not pressing further, and Laszlo believed in that moment he’d fallen for the man all over again. That seemed to happen often, now. The simplest thing would have him spiraling into some weary but tender affection for John. He has had to learn not to mind it so; there’s nothing much he can do, he’s realized. 

As if to outrun the emotion before it swelled in his chest, Laszlo stood to drape the afghan that occupied his lap over John’s sleeping form. It would certainly be more preferable to get him into a proper bed, and no doubt John would regret it tomorrow with the ache in his muscles and joints, but Laszlo couldn’t find it in himself to wake the man. 

As Laszlo leaned down to cover John’s tired, contorted figure, pulling the blanket forward in one direction and then the other with his good arm, the illustrator gave a comedic huff in his sleep, mouth falling slack for a moment. Laszlo was a bit astounded by how strongly and swiftly it filled his chest with ineffable warmth. 

It was then in studying John’s resting features, handsome face smoothed by sleep, body tucked in on itself, the large man somehow transformed into a shrinking, drowsy mess of limbs; somehow even more open and unguarded than in waking life; that Laszlo couldn’t help himself.

“Édesem,” he muttered, the word spilling unbidden from his mouth as he moved his hand to stroke softly at John’s stubbled cheek. His mother had called him that when he was little, sometimes, even though it often annoyed his father to hear her speak Hungarian. She’d never been very physically affectionate with Laszlo, and perhaps this is why he remembered her words all the better.

John gave a groan, managing to surprise Laszlo, and said, “That’s not German. What is it?” Apparently he had stirred without Laszlo’s realizing. 

Laszlo, even in his embarrassment, couldn’t seem to stop himself from smiling softly. “I’ll tell you later. Would you let me put you up in a proper bed? You’ll hurt your neck like that.”

John roused a bit, moving and stretching along the settee, and gave Laszlo what was likely supposed to be a loaded glance, but was too pinched with sleep to look like anything more than a fond squint. Still, his mouth managed to curl into the smallest, softest of smirks, and he said, “In your bed? You do have the best in the house.”

Laszlo didn’t break eye contact, unwilling to give in to his games. “I suppose.” And then a moment later, because again, he could not help himself (although whenever could he help himself around John), he added, “Of course, my dear. You keep the bed warm, and you can be quite good company.” A smile he couldn’t contain, and he was then grabbing softly at John’s hand, kissing knuckles he had countless times seen raw and bloody but now were healed and smooth, with just the finest traces of charcoal stuck to the skin. Laszlo hummed at the calloused inside junction of John’s pointer finger, knowing he held the artist’s livelihood in his hands. 

Up the stairs they went together, and the last melancholy thought Laszlo allowed himself as they ascended was that perhaps; and it seemed very clear now; that he, and John, and perhaps everyone he knew, was simply a wounded child attempting desperately to recover. Alas, though, there were worse therapies than this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: No, I don’t actually know any Hungarian, and please never assume I do, but everywhere I checked seemed to agree “édesem” (meaning “my sweet”) could be used as both a parent-child and lover-lover term of endearment. 
> 
> But you know. If any Hungarians out there feel like letting me know, be my guest. 
> 
> Also I’m so,,, soft for these two. I mean, present me with an intellectual, emotionally repressed character with daddy issues and I’m there. Also John Moore is Baby. He must be treated as such. Please protect him


End file.
